


queen of flaying

by pandizzy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22988134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: Barba Bolton attends the Maiden's Day Cattle Show.
Relationships: Aegon III Targaryen/Barba Bolton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	queen of flaying

Lady Barba Bolton is tall, taller than most of the other maidens available, and proud, holding her head high even as the other attendants bump into her. It’s as if she is unbothered by what is happening as if she is not in the Throne Room but, instead, at the Dreadfort, in her family’s lands. She is wearing a pretty pink gown, with red accents, her family’s colors, and her black hair is braided around her head. Her colorless eyes fly between the lords and maidens before finally resting on the King.

Aegon III, Lord the Seven Kingdoms, looks bored. He rests his head on his hand as his herald announced Lady Sarra of House Waynwood, daughter of Lord Harrold and his wife, Lady Anya of House Royce. Lady Sarra looks pretty, with her green gown and her golden jewels, but she could be wearing a sack of potatoes for all the King cared. Barba watches him intently, as he waves his hand and the Lady Sarra is taken away, pearly tears running down her cheeks. Her outraged father runs to scold her, upset for her losing the chance to be queen, but oh, how could he know that Lady Sarra is not at fault? Barba doesn’t doubt that the woman has qualities and the high birth for the making of a perfect queen, but it’s clear that His Grace doesn’t care.

Is it grief? she asks herself, walking down the hall to the growing line of maidens that hope to present themselves to the King. Is the death of Queen Jaehaera still fresh on his mind? Or the death of his brothers, the scarring of his sisters and the burning of his mother? Even in the North, people still felt pain over the Dance of Dragons. A war that lasted for so long takes time to heal.

Aegon is young, only three and ten, but he seems much older. His eyes are dead, with no sparkle, and Barba can tell that he is only dressed well because of the pressure from his regents. His black doublet is finely made, as are his dark silk breeches and he wears pretty black shoes. He has his golden crown on, a simple circlet with no adorning jewels, and his golden three-headed dragon pendant. The black and gold make him glow, looking every inch the perfect King, but she thinks he’d be more comfortable in a more intimate setting, without the thousand maidens in attendance.

Barba looks at Lord Peake, Hand of the King, and the creator of this nonsense. He’s smiling at his daughter, the Lady Turnips, who cradles the late Jaehaera’s dolls as if it were a babe. His attempt at betrothing the girl and the King was met with disapproval throughout the realm, including the North, and the only reason why they are here is so that Aegon III can choose Myrielle himself, to make it seem like it was the King’s choice and not his own. Barba’s brother, Lord Bolton, thought it to be a folly, as the Lady Peake is not worthy of a royal marriage, before insisting to his overlord, Lord Stark, that the match wouldn’t be seen favorably by the North. When the Cattle Show was announced, Boros Bolton insisted that his sister be sent to King’s Landing and present herself as an option.

And so, Barba Bolton rode to the capital with her finest gowns over her horse’s back, hoping to flirt and charm a young King, before quickly finding out that every other eligible maiden in the Seven Kingdoms had the same idea. 

The Throne Room of the Red Keep is filled with ladies and lords, the hall so overflowed that they could scarcely move, the air is suffocatingly hot and more than ten ladies had to be removed for fainting spells. Some of the maidens are scarcely more than babes, while others clearly misinterpreted the age limit of thirty namedays. If this is what Lord Peake wanted, then she couldn’t imagine a more terrible man in the land.

Lady Moriah Qorgyle, the one in front of Barba, boldly asks the King to come down from his Iron Throne and give her a kiss, as she has fallen in love with him from afar, but His Grace, not showing any embarrassment, doesn’t oblige her request, only waving his hand and having the Kingsguard remove Lady Moriah from his sight.

“The Lady Barba of House Bolton, sister of Lord Boros of the Dreadfort, daughter of Lord Roose and Lady Joan of House Cerwyn,” the herald announces, a tall and thin man with light brown hair. It’s the second herald of the night, as the first lost his voice and had to be replaced.

Barba curtsies to King Aegon, bending her knees and back ever so slightly. She is two years older than him, already flowered and fit to bear royal children, or so her brother lovingly claims. She is wearing her finest gown of crushed pink velvet, with small rubies sewn into her skirts, and her silver necklace hangs low on her throat. She’d never something like it in the North, it’s too cold for it, but the stifling climate on the throne room makes it the perfect occasion for such a gown.

“Lady Barba,” the King says and Barba tries not to show any surprise at it. It’s the first time that she has heard him talk ever since Lady Myrielle was presented to him. From the gasps around the crowd, she knows that everyone has noticed as well and Lord Peake frowns, “You have come all the way from the North for this?” He looks around with an air of disgust, the only sign of emotion that she has seen him show, but his eyes turn to Barba with the most pitful neutrality.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Barba answers, “My King calls and I come.” She tries not to smile, mimicking his cold expression.

Aegon narrows his eyes slightly. This conversation is spanning longer than any of his other interactions with the eligible maidens, even Lady Myrielle. Barba straightens her back, placing her hands over her stomach, and smiles slightly.

“I have a request from His Grace if the King shall hear it from me,” she murmurs and the crowd goes silent around her. Perhaps they are hoping for another Moriah Qorgyle, or even for him to deny her outright, without even hearing what she has to say. They all want their own daughters and sisters to marry Aegon Targaryen.

“I shall hear it, but can’t promise anything.” He looks at his side, where the small council stands by their King. Until Aegon turns six and ten, they rule the kingdoms in his name, without even hearing what he has to say.

Barba smiles, calmly.

“If you send me home, Your Grace, send me home with food, for the snows are deep and your people are starving,” she states and the crowd gasps. Even the King seems shocked for what is seen as a merciful request, from a girl of a land that suffers greatly from the winter. Has anyone else requested aid for their home? No, Barba doesn’t think so. All the maidens had only requested one thing, the only thing that Aegon didn’t want to give to anyone: a crown.

“I will try, my lady,” the King says and Barba curtsies, knowing very well that this is the end of their conversation.

Or so she thought.

As she gathers her skirts in one hand to leave, His Grace raises his hand, stopping her movement and she is too shocked to do much else than hear what he has to say. The crowd is so quiet that she thinks a pin could fall and everyone would be able to hear it as if it were a thousand roaring lions.

“The sigil of your house is the flayed man, my lady, is it not?” he asks, but Barba thinks that the question is only a formality. He’s the King, his duty is to know the sigil of every house in his service.

“It is, Your Grace,” Barba answers.

Aegon licks his lips and Barba holds her breath, waiting to hear what he has to say. The King looks at his regents and then to his friend, the so-called Gaemon Palehair, before taking a deep breath and saying what is on his mind.

“Do you consider flaying to be a suitable punishment, my lady?” he asks and Barba can’t help the widening of her eyes, the breath leaving her chest and the sudden coldness in her stomach. She looks around and her eyes meet Cregan Stark’s, her overlord, who came to King’s Landing to oppose the match between the King and Myrielle Peake. He shakes his head, slightly, and she looks back at the King, who is staring at her hungrily.

“My house hasn’t flayed a man in centuries, Your Grace,” she answers, lying through her teeth. When Barba was six, her father took her tiny hand between his own and led her down the stairs at the Dreadfort where she saw… She shakes her head slightly, pressing her nails into her palm tightly enough that the memory leaves her vision and she forgets the bloody bodies and the drying skins. Barba licks her chapped lips and chooses her words carefully, “But if my mother had been killed and fed to a dragon, I’d not hesitate to make the man suffer.” She raises her head and her pale eyes meet the King’s dark violet. It’s bold, she knows it so, but he doesn’t avert her gaze, only staring at her as if she holds all the answers to the world on her hand, “A man deserves his vengeance, while other men deserve to have their skin removed from their body.”

No one speaks and Barba wonders if she has gone too far. She looks at the Kingsguard, who all have their hands on the pommel of their swords, and to the regents, whose eyes are blown wide and shocked. Lady Myrielle has her hand over her mouth, and her eyes are starting to fill with tears.

The silence is broken not by men calling for her head, or even by the herald announcing the next lady on the line, but by a rough cough, a sound so strange that her ears itch to recognize it. Barba looks at the King and finds him bent over himself, a hand on his stomach, and his mouth is open on a smile. He’s… he is laughing.

Barba doesn’t think anyone has ever heard him laugh, by the shocked looks on their faces, and the nervous laughs starting to leave their lips, but a sense of victory overfills her and she stands taller, prouder. Lady Moriah is frowning, perhaps playing her own conversation with the King over on her head, trying to see what she did wrong, and the lady behind Barba, a lyseni woman called Myrmadora seems ready to tackle Barba on the ground and scratch her whole face for charming the King that she so wanted.

Aegon laughs for several minutes until he runs out of breath and has to stop, leaning forward on his throne, drying the laughing tears from his eyes. Barba smiles, sweetly at him, as he quickly composes himself, the haunting emptiness returning to his handsome face.

“I think I agree with you, Lady Barba,” he says and turns to his friend, the bastard Gaemon. When the King nods to the boy, Barba feels her heart racing in her chest, her hands starting to sweat and she looks at Lord Peake, who seems to be fuming, his face red and sweating.

Barba smiles and curtsies once more, before finally leaving the line.

The ball continues for hours more, as ladies are presented to a uninterested King. The smarter fathers and brothers often would present the same girl twice, but that barely changed things, for Aegon seemed far away, his eyes glassy. His half-sisters present a young girl called Daenaera Velaryon, who's scarcely more than six, and Aegon comments on how pretty she is. After Lady Daenaera is announced, the other ladies are quickly brought to His Grace and his disinterest is so clear Henrietta Woodhull, the last maiden, sobs as she curtsies.

King Aegon summons his cupbearer, a young boy called Gaemon Palehair, who once was a pretender king during the Dance and is now His Grace's closest friend.

The boy doesn't tremble as he speaks, "His Grace, King Aegon, Third of His Name, has made a decision." Gaemon smiles, "His intended queen is Lady Barba, of House Bolton."

A thousand eyes turn to Barba and she feels more hate than adoration, but she finds that she doesn't care. Aegon isn't smiling as he looks at her, but the sound of his laughter still rings on her ears.

Barba looks at Lord Peake, who is fuming, and Lord Stark, who seems almost happy. She smiles at both of them, the sense of glee swelling in her chest.

 _I will be Queen_ , and there is nothing wrong with that.


End file.
